


Haven

by redf8x



Category: Bleach
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Depression, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 03:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14844374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redf8x/pseuds/redf8x
Summary: After the events of the Winter War and the subsequent loss of his powers, Kurosaki Ichigo is a solitary man set adrift. Urahara Kisuke is the steadfast light steering him away from the rocks.





	Haven

“Onii-chan, dinner’s ready! You’ll become a prune if you’re in there any longer.”    

Yuzu’s thin, high voice carried through the door, the light, teasing words with a brittle line of strain threaded through them startling Ichigo in the bath. Brown eyes flew open to the white tiles of the Kurosaki family bathroom while drops of tepid water splashed him in the face. Straightening his back out of its slump, Ichigo’s hand flexed and then rose to wipe the trickling moisture away. The pads of his fingers were indeed whitened and wrinkled.

“Ah, sorry. I’ll be out in a minute,” Ichigo called out, but he hardly moved as his sister’s steps padded away, as the cooling water lapped languidly at his chest and slowly leeched away his warmth. He barely registered the growing chill, and the wizened state of his skin felt oddly familiar, like something shrunken and shriveled rising at last to the surface. He could have sat there for hours still; what was there left after all to do? Except Yuzu and Karin were waiting. Ichigo’s joints creaked as he dragged his body out of the tub.

Hands grabbed a towel and dried his lean body up and down and back again. Arms and legs stepped into his clothes, left then right, before his feet carried him along the well-trodden path to the kitchen table set for four. A pot of hearty curry and steaming bowls of rice sat upon the expanse of wood. The spicy dish, one of Ichigo’s favourites, flavoured the air with its inviting aroma. Knees bent him to the task of sitting and sustenance and once there, neat spoonfuls lifted to his mouth. Ichigo swallowed tasting little.

Words flowed past him, a tuneless cacophony no more heeded than the buzz of an insect. In time, as things tended to do, his bowl emptied. Ichigo stood up in the middle of another one of his old man’s rambling, melodramatic stories. The wailing along with the clink of cutlery ceased. Three pairs of similarly dark eyes fixed upon him.

“Thank you for dinner,” Ichigo said.  He kept his gaze focused on a point above all their heads and dipped his chin down towards his chest before pushing away from the table. “I’ve got a lot of homework to do, so I’ll be in my room.” Save for the groan of stairs underneath his weight, he retreated in silence.

Ichigo closed the door to his bedroom, his chest and shoulders deflating in an exhale. He took a seat at his desk and flipped the textbook open to the necessary page while he held the point of his chin cradled in his left palm. The worksheet was already three-quarters filled (his homework almost always done after the lunch hours and breaks he tended to pass in the library), but Ichigo made no move to finish. The view of Karakura town beyond his window had caught his attention.

Shadow crept along the empty streets and the start of a fine drizzle darkened the pavement further. Under the weight of encroaching rain and night, the confines of the room and the tight, fragility of Ichigo’s skin began to smother. He flung the window open and inhaled deeply, but the damp air hardly seemed to fill his lungs or salve his rising agitation. Fingertips gripped the windowsill to the point of aching before pushing off, letting go, and falling away into the night.

On the bank of a rushing river, Ichigo skidded to a halt. Breathe came harder now than before; his muscles complained with a pain that would likely linger for a few days. Weakness in abundance. Indisputable proof of the humanity that was all that remained.

When the sun was shining, when Yuzu slid his breakfast in front of him with a cheery, “good morning!”, when Inoue-san looked him over with those doe eyes from across the classroom, it was easier to slump down into his seat and his normalcy and ignore Chad’s increasing absences, Ishida racing through the hallway, and the cavernous space that had opened inside him. But on nights like tonight, a night so much like the one eight years ago, it was near impossible to pretend. Ichigo stood and gazed out at the water, his body tired and increasingly sodden.

Minutes, maybe even hours, passed. The cold sting of rain ceased falling upon Ichigo’s bowed head and he realized with a sudden sideways start that he was no longer alone. To his right, a tall man dressed in traditional clothing in various shade of greens stood holding a red, oil-paper umbrella aloft.

The low roar of the river or the constant dripping in his ears must have obscured Ichigo’s hearing; how else could he have missed the noisy approach of geta clacking on concrete? Or maybe Ichigo needed only to accept this further evidence of the dulling of his senses.

“Kurosaki-san, fancy seeing you out and about.”

Irritation sparked along Ichigo’s nerves at the other’s light tone. His breath stuttered as he struggled to clamp down on the urge to snap in return. Though Ichigo could no longer sense the other man’s distinctive reiryoku, his teasing voice and the faint scent of sweetened peppermint with an edge of smoke identified him just as surely.

“Getabōshi,” Ichigo ground out through the grit in his throat.

Ichigo drew on the well of his indifference, poured it into the distance between them, and sank into its depth waiting for the stilted prodding, the pitying concern to come. Urahara’s steady hand holding the shielding umbrella over them, those crafty eyes shaded under that stupid green and white hat, the force of his presence even without discernable reiatsu only brought to mind strengths now gone.

“Fine night isn’t it?”

Bitterness spilled from Ichigo’s lips before he could swallow it down fed by the swelling memories. “Fine? What’s so fine about it?”

“Hmmm? I could just as well ask you what’s so wrong.”

A thousand grievances surged and lashed at Ichigo’s control. Only his doubt that he’d be able to rein them in again kept them from breaking loose. “It’s cold,” Ichigo muttered, eventually, to that expectant idiot’s grin.

Thick, heavy fabric settled over Ichigo’s shoulders. That scent, hard and soft, delicate and rich, rousing and known, engulfed Ichigo’s senses. The warmth of Urahara’s body seeped from his haori into Ichigo’s skin. Up until that moment, he hadn’t known he was shivering.

“There now. Better?”

Shock at the unexpected act, its bold, prickling intimacy that pierced through layers of shielding apathy, strangled Ichigo’s tongue even as the fine tremor running though his body subsided. He stared into opaque, gray eyes.

“There will always be ills in this life, don’t you agree, Kurosaki-san?”

Ichigo’s grunt at this bit of obviousness was barely audible over the falling rain.

“We do what we can with what we have, and as for the rest, well...” Urahara shrugged, a languid roll of his shoulders that travelled through his arms down to his hands. A shower of fattened drops scattered from the spindly tips of the umbrella. “We at least are still here.”

“Tch,” Ichigo huffed out on his next breath. His eyes returned to the undulating river. Away from his own sight, his hand crept up to the neck of the haori that encircled him. Fingers grasped the edges of the cloth in a tight fist.

Urahara spoke again before the fidgeting hand could either pull the ends of the overcoat closer or else cast it off. “Do you mind, Kurosaki-san, keeping this humble shopkeeper company a little while longer? It’s a fine night to watch the rain, ne?”

The fist at Ichigo’s throat loosened and dropped back down to his side.

“Whatever.”

But for the flow and fall of water, quiet descended upon them. Ichigo remained standing next to Urahara. The other man became something akin to the landscape, like the breeze on his brow or the unyielding concrete of the path under the soles of his shoes. His arm was a shelter and his body a bulwark, there and inevitable. Standing next to Urahara Kisuke, Ichigo let himself drift into the dark.

More minutes, maybe even hours, passed. The sky had lightened with the barest hint of warmth when Urahara raised his hands over his head and stretched. He threw his head back exposing the pale line of his throat. The bones in his spine popped.

“I think it’s time that this older, though still dashing gentleman sought his bed. Walk me home, Kurosaki-san?”

“You’re the last person on earth who’d need an escort. I’m leaving.”

Urahara followed behind him up the slope of the bank practically on his heels. “My my, how mean you are to your old sensei.” They reached the road and turned. Geta clacked rhythmically on the sidewalk below while the umbrella bobbed along above. “And such poor manners. You haven’t asked after me at all.”

“Go away.”

“Why I’m very well, Kurosaki-san. Thank you for your concern.”

“Shut up,” Ichigo said, but without much heat. As they walked along the narrow streets the ever-present pressure behind his eyes seemed to ease the slightest bit. Curt words continued to fly like darts from his lips in response to Urahara’s usual blather and bit by bit the chronic tension held in his shoulders too splintered and fell away. Lines furrowed his brow and a real scowl twisted Ichigo’s mouth, but after months of carefully constructed, bland, barren blankness it all felt strangely wonderful.

Quick as a thief’s blade, Urahara’s closed fan appeared in his free hand and jabbed Ichigo in the cheek. Battled-honed reflexes kicked in and Ichigo swung around and knocked the fan away before bringing his fist down on top of Urahara’s striped head.

“Ouch ouch,” Urahara said. He ducked and rubbed the hand clutching the fan along his scalp. “Excellent response time as per usual, but you’ll need to keep up with your training if you want to maintain your strength.”

Ichigo snorted before slanting a narrowed look at the other man. “What strength is that again?”

Urahara tilted his head to the side so that their eyes could meet from under the brim of his hat. His voice took on that rare, intent tone. “Why the drive to become better than you are and to stand up and protect the ones you care for, Kurosaki-san. Or have you given up on all that?”

Denial flared in Ichigo, swift and startling and almost alien after so long an absence. Too fragile to be given voice just yet. He stared at the other man, mouth firmly shut with no answer to give.

Urahara straightened, his eyes falling back into shadow. He rested the handle of his umbrella against his shoulder and twirled it so that the paper dome became a blur of dizzying red behind his head.

“Don’t forget, the shōten and its many resources are always open to you.” The umbrella rolled to an abrupt stop grasped in a sure grip. “See you then.” With an airy wave and a pivot of geta, Urahara walked away.

Ichigo blinked away the crimson afterimage, took a step to continue on his way, and saw with some surprise that he was standing in front of the Kurosaki clinic. Shaking off the feeling that he’d been led there even though he’d gone exactly where and done what he’d intended, he let himself into the house through the back.

Ichigo caught the door before it could slam closed and toed his shoes off in the dark. Halfway up the stairs to his bedroom, he realized he still had Urahara’s haori draped around his shoulders. The cloth made heavier from its dampness slipped from his shoulders to hang folded over his left arm. Whatever warmth it had carried had long since dissipated, but Ichigo supposed it had done its job. He carried the overcoat the rest of the way to his room, its rough fibres rubbing absently under his fingertips, his body no longer cold.

It took over a week for Ichigo to finally make his way to the shoten. Between troubling dreams of familiar and haughty ghosts that berated him in the dark, and brazen bag snatchings and schoolyard brawls in the light of day, he had not had the time or energy to bring the haori - freshly laundered by hand no less - back to its owner. Then that slick, dark-haired man had popped up in yet another unlikely place brandishing a bowl of noodles and baiting words. Words that worked no matter their blatancy. Ichigo set off at once from one shop to another, piqued despite himself into killing two birds with a curious little stone.

Urahara’s shop came into view halfway down a nondescript street, the distance eaten up by Ichigo’s long stride. Nearly upon the doorstep, two voices carried through the sliding front doors no doubt belonging to the two approaching shadows, one tall and one short, visible through the frosted glass planes.

“You sure I don’t need to pay?” The voice of a young girl, one that Ichigo would know anywhere.

“Please don’t make me say it every time. It’s covered. I owe your brother.” A man this time whose smooth tones rose and fell with a playful lilt.

Ichigo had just enough time to duck into the nearby alley before the doors flew open.

“Speaking of which, is your brother still doing well?” Urahara’s voice had dropped an octave, the levity gone.

“Yeah,” Karin said.

“And your feelings haven’t changed?”

“Nope. Everything’s fine the way it is. It doesn’t matter if he never gets his powers back. He’s fought enough. From now on it’s my turn to protect him.” Karin matched Urahara in seriousness, her stare unwavering before she turned to leave.

“If anything happens, let me know. I’ll give you whatever you need. Anything,” Urahara said to her back.

Karin’s only answer was to peer backwards over her shoulder with a brow raised.

“Just in case.” Urahara tipped his hat and stepped back inside the shoten. A wave of a fan and the doors slid shut. Ichigo remained in the alleyway until Karin’s thin form disappeared at the end of the street, plastic bag laden with goods swinging from her fingertips.         

“Worried?”

Ichigo swung around and eyed the slick, dark-haired man leaning slumped against the opposite wall of the alley.

“Of course you are when your little sister’s visiting a shifty guy like that.”

All the muscles in Ichigo’s body tensed. “He’s not shifty! Urahara-san–”

“Helped us? Is your friend?” The man followed his interruption with a snort. “That along the lines of what you we’re going to say? And how do you know this? What makes you think you understand anything about Urahara?”

“Who are you?”

The man straightened off the wall. “A real friend with some friendly advice. You better make a move soon, if you want to protect your family that is.”

“Your name,” Ichigo repeated.

“Ginjō Kūgo.” Ginjō’s thin lips twisted up in a smirk, his dark brown eyes locking with Ichigo’s.

“Tch. Don’t think I trust you now just because you’ve told me that much.”

“All right. Lemme give you something else then.” Ginjō held out a glossy black card pressed between his thumb and forefinger. “For when you decide you do trust me.”

Ichigo took it and slid it straight into his pocket. Without another word, he stalked out of the alley and headed for the shōten. The doors slid open under his fingers and closed just as easily behind him. Shelves and stands filled with all kinds of colourful confectionaries streamed past Ichigo in his single-minded approach. Leaving his shoes in a haphazard heap on the floor, he entered the living quarters of the shōten and found Urahara seated cross-legged at the low wooden table at the centre of the room. A fan was unfurled in front of his face.

“What’re you trying to pull?”

The fan flapped lazily. “How nice of you to drop by, Kurosaki-san. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“What was Karin doing here?”

“Tessai-san,” Urahara turned his head and called out. “We have an esteemed and long-overdue guest. Please bring us a pot of my special blend and an assortment of refreshments.” 

Ichigo slammed both of his palms down on the table and leaned forward over its length so that they were face to face. At this short of a distance, there was nowhere to hide. “What happened last year was enough. I don’t want Karin mixed up in any more of this.”

The fan’s waving slowed to a halt. “Would that I could prevent it, but your sister has reiryoku, and a vast potential for it at that. Much like another Kurosaki that I know.”

“Will you throw her in a pit then? Send her blind to face your enemies?”

“Now now, Kurosaki-san. There’s no need to fuss. My best training is reserved only for you. I promise.” Light lashes fluttered over those quicksilver eyes then stilled. The fan snapped shut and settled in Urahara’s lap. “I will however look after your sister’s safety and do anything in my power to assist her. As I would for any Kurosaki.”

Tessai entered the room then bearing a dark wooden tray that he set down in the middle of the table. The breadth of his broadly held shoulders forced Ichigo to settle back onto his knees.

Urahara clapped his hands at the spread of treats before them. “You must try one of these truffles.”

“Thank you, Tessai-san,” Ichigo said reflexively to his other host who bowed and left without saying a word. The younger man remained on his knees. “I don’t- I can’t-” Ichigo’s mouth scowled at its own inability to speak. “My sisters are all that matter.” Had he been aware of the helplessness visible upon his face, he would have turned away.

Urahara nodded at him, a slow up and down. “I am sorry, Kurosaki-san.” A cup of tea slid across the table along with a plate of dark chocolate truffles.

“For what?” Ichigo picked up a chocolate without seeing it.

“For more than I can properly convey.”

Bitterness spread across Ichigo’s tongue. As always, he could do nothing but choke it down. But the warm tea along with Urahara’s open gaze and a balancing sweetness made it all a little easier to swallow.

They sipped at their tea in silence. Ichigo ate another chocolate. Then he picked up and unwrapped one of the candies on the tray before popping it in his mouth. His lips puckered instantly at the resulting sourness. Those particular sweets remained untouched after that. Soon, his eyes wandered about the room from corner to corner, lighting upon the same bits of furniture, the few knick-knacks and decorative pieces in their usual places. Funny to think about how little things had changed for everyone else. After his third pass, Ichigo’s toes began to curl and wiggle within their socks.

Urahara set his tea cup down and stood. “I trust that you’re suitably refreshed. Let’s go.”

Ichigo followed Urahara to the trapdoor to the training grounds. The older man zipped down the ladder and landed in a soft crouch at its end; Ichigo’s own feet descended the rungs with a much slower measuredness learned from necessity not long after his return to Karakura town. He was only human after all.

“What are we doing here, Urahara-san?” Ichigo said after they both reached the rocky ground and had begun to walk. The vastness of the training grounds stretched out on every side; the faux blue sky curved around them in perpetuity. Both words and feet dragged along, heavy and dulled with a weariness felt down to the bone.

“What is it that one does in a training ground?” All Ichigo could see of the other man was his back, but the smirk on Urahara’s face was evident.

“You don’t have your zanpakutō.”

Urahara swung around with his empty palm and fingers splayed out at his side. Under the shaded brim of his striped hat, white teeth flashed. “Can you only strike with a weapon in your hand? What happened to the fight in you?”

Those hands in question formed into fists against Ichigo’s tensed thighs. Urahara nodded and his grin sharpened.

“Come at me, Ichigo.”

A dam composed of only the flimsiest of sticks broke inside of Ichigo. He charged across the hard-packed ground moving faster than he had in forever.

Urahara met him strike for strike. For all Ichigo’s training in karate and at the persistent hands (and feet) of Goat-face, Urahara hit faster, harder, and with more precision. It had very little to do with reiatsu. A redirecting blow against his shoulder and a sweeping foot at the fragile juncture of the ankle sent Ichigo spinning in the air to land sprawled in the dirt.

Except for his spiritual powers, Urahara held none of his skill in reserve from Ichigo. The deadly resolve that hardened those pale features and scrutinized every twitch of muscle made Ichigo’s heart race; it had been so long since someone had looked at him and truly seen. Springing up onto his feet, he wiped the dirt clinging to his palms off on his pants.

“Hakuda. Let me guess, you’re a master.”

“A third seat of the Onmitsukidō and the Head of the Detention Unit had to be.”

The world narrowed to the slide and snap of flesh on flesh and the co-mingled breath of their exertions. Dust from their forceful dance across the dirt rose in whirls and clung to their sweat-sheened bodies. Bruises bloomed upon Ichigo’s skin while air grew shallow in his lungs.

Everything strained and ached, but it was different from the phantom pains that had plagued his days for the last year and a half. That was an atrophy, a passive suffocation. The rush of blood burning in his veins cleansed all that rot away.

Ichigo fought his way forward. This was nothing like subbing in on the football pitch or swinging a bat at a harmless ball. Such hollow victories. He fought until he earned his exhaustion and crashed to the ground. At the end of it, Urahara extended a hand to pull him upright. Legs that wobbled like jelly trailed in the other man’s wake and climbed with great care up the rungs.

The ladder stretched impossibly high into that serene blue sky, yet its end came too soon for Ichigo. The hatched door shut with a heavy thud on the expanse of the training grounds. The light shone so much darker. Up here, downcast eyes and the quiet constancy of Ichigo's days returned. Seated upon the genkan inside the shop, Ichigo slid on the same old shoes and stood.   

“Next time we’ll work on your grappling and throws.”

Ichigo looked up. Urahara’s bright gray eyes and smile waited for him as well as Ichigo’s backpack held in his arms.  

“Ok.”

Almost home, loaded bag pressing against his back and too far to turn around, Ichigo remembered the haori stuffed inside. Another reason to return then. Ichigo kept walking, his steps lighter than they were.


End file.
